Of Serpent-Tongued Words and Phoenix Fire
by CrazyAce'n'PokerFace
Summary: Had Peeta Mellark been born into a wizarding family, he would have been in Hufflepuff. He wasn't, so things turned out very, very differently. Hijinx ensue. Hogwarts AU. Everlark.


**Author Note: This is the second Hunger Games fanfic I've written, and the first one I've published (the other one will be appearing soon). As you can see from the summary, it's a Hogwarts AU. If you've read the books or seen the films, you ought to be good in understanding any references, but if questions arise, please message me and I will be happy to explain (at length, in great detail, and with much enthusiasm; you have been warned). **

**The story begins fifty or sixty years after the Battle of Hogwarts. It will incorporate mostly canon couples from both the Harry Potter and the Hunger Games universes, with a few exceptions, as you will see. The only one I feel that's important to mention right off the bat is Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood, who ****_are_**** film canon-compliant. ;)**

**Also, I will not be using British spelling, despite the story taking place in the U.K., as I am from the United States and am not confident that I wouldn't confuse myself and my readers, so it's better to stick to what I know, yes? British phrases used in the Harry Potter books will pop up, but if any misusage occurs, I apologize in advance. (On a random tangent, did you know that "Yoda" has made it into the Microsoft Word dictionary, but "Quidditch" has not?)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games trilogy or the Harry Potter books; I am not making any monetary profit from these works. It is more accurate to say they own me, and to say that I have not profited from the presence of Suzanne Collins's and J.K. Rowling's characters in my life would be a gross and horrible inaccuracy. :) **

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**Of Serpent-Tongued Words and Phoenix Fire**

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_To see you rhythmically advancing_

_Seems to my fancy fond_

_As if it were a serpent dancing_

_Waved by the charmer's wand._

—Charles Baudelaire, in _Le Serpent qui danse_, from _Les Fleurs du Mal_, translated from the French by Roy Campbell****

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_i. Before, Part I_

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Had Peeta Mellark been born into a wizarding family, he would have been in Hufflepuff.

He would have grown up awaiting his eleventh birthday and the accompanying letter from Hogwarts with more anticipation than he could stand. He would have enviously watched his brothers head off to school before him, longing for the day when he would do the same. He would have heard all about the lake, and the moving staircases, and the ghosts, and the Quidditch field, and especially the four houses, the pillars which held up the school.

His mother would have been from Ravenclaw, his father from Hufflepuff, and a smattering of other relatives would have been from Slytherin or Gryffindor.

His middle brother, Brandon, with his boisterous personality and tendency to leap before he looked, would have fit right in with that last house.

His eldest brother, Emmer, with his intelligent, clever manner, would have been sorted into Ravenclaw like their mother.

And Peeta, gentle, kind, friendly Peeta, more like his father than either of his brothers combined, would have fully expected to follow in his father's footsteps. He would have grown up with relatives telling him, "Oh, you're a Hufflepuff for certain!" and "You're just like your father, you are, destined for the black and yellow."

Had he been born into a wizarding family, the second the Sorting Hat was placed on his head, it would have seen the words "I'm going to be in Hufflepuff" at the forefront of his mind. The sorting would have been over in a second, the house announced, and Peeta Mellark happily placed amongst a group of people where loyalty, kindness, hard work, and a sense of justice were the qualities most valued in its members.

But Peeta Mellark had _not _been born into a wizarding family, so the first time he ever set foot in the Great Hall, something very different occurred.

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The first time Peeta Mellark realized he was...well, _different_, he was five years old.

He and his brothers were playing in the fields surrounding their family's summer estate, and like usual, Emmer and Bran, who were eight and seven respectively, were running far ahead of him and ignoring his pleas for them to slow down. He was so intent on catching up to them that he didn't watch where he was going, and tripped and fell into an abandoned well.

_That_ certainly brought his brothers running back.

Fortunately, Peeta wasn't injured too badly, and Bran and Emmer decided to go back to the house and get help.

Unfortunately, they had wandered quite a distance from the manor, and after informing their father what had happened, neither Emmer nor Bran were certain which way the well actually _was_.

Thanks to his brothers' awful sense of direction, Peeta ended up being stuck in a small, dirty space for hours, a space that grew increasingly darker as the sun inched further down the horizon.

Eventually, the sun set, the cold set in, and poor Peeta—used to the sounds of the city and constant light from the streetlamps—was plunged into utter darkness and exposed to the unfamiliar hoots of owls and the noises of small, wild animals, their frantic _scritch-scritch_ing sounding terribly like noises from a horror film.

Like any normal five-year-old would, he panicked.

He cried, he yelled, he screamed for his brothers and his father, and, finally exhausted, he sat down on the floor and curled up against the wall. Scared, lonely, and utterly convinced he was going to die, Peeta placed one small hand flat against the stone walls of the well—and something _magical_ happened.

The walls began to glow.

They glowed a faint, lovely orange, just like the color of sunset. Surrounded by the soft, warm light, Peeta was comforted by the certainty that his father would be able to find him now. All he and his brothers would have to do was follow the light. His fears soothed and his faith restored, Peeta promptly fell asleep.

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He woke up to the sound of his brothers' and his father's frantic voices, calling out his name.

"Emmer! Bran! I'm here! Daddy, I'm here!" he said, so excited that he didn't notice that the walls were dimming. By the time his father's face appeared over the edge of the well, the glow was completely gone, the only illumination coming from the flashlight his dad held.

"Peeta! There you are! Don't worry, I'm coming to get you," Rye Mellark said, his joy and relief matching his son's. And he did rescue him, just like Peeta knew he would.

Later, after Peeta was safely bundled up in front of the fireplace and his brothers were getting soundly scolded by their mother, his dad asked how he felt, his voice gentle and soothing.

"I'm fine," he said. "I wasn't scared at all!"

"Really?" his father said, amused. "Not even a little?"

"Nuh-uh!" Peeta said. "Not even a little. 'Cause I knew you would find me, Daddy, 'cause of the lights and everything! I knew they'd lead you right to me, an' they did, Daddy, they did!"

"I see," Rye chuckled. "You're absolutely right, Peeta, the flashlight did help me find you. But, you know, it was your big, strong voice that really did the job." He poked Peeta's belly lightly. "I could've heard you from a mile away."

Peeta blinked. "I wasn't talkin' 'bout the flashlights, Daddy. I was talkin' 'bout the walls."

His father frowned, puzzled. "The walls?"

"Uh-huh! They glowed orange-y, and it looked just like sunset, and it was warm, and safe, and pretty, and I knew I didn't have to be scared at all!" Peeta said, excited.

"The walls were glowing?"

Peeta nodded. "Yeah!"

"But walls don't glow, Peeta."

"These walls did!"

"Hmm," his father said. He placed one big hand against Peeta's forehead. "Sarena?" he said. "Could you come here, please? I think Peeta might have hit his head when he fell. He's imagining things."

Peeta's mouth dropped open. "I'm not 'magining things! I saw it, Daddy, I did!"

"Saw what?" his mother asked, irritated. She reached out a hand and gripped his chin, turning his head and examining it.

Sarena Mellark was a beautiful woman: tall, blond, and striking, especially when she smiled, which wasn't often. Peeta adored her from the bottom of his heart, but lately he'd noticed that maybe she didn't quite feel the same way. She wasn't like other mothers at school, and tended to be more closed off, sterner, with higher expectations of her children.

When he was older, he would realize that as the eldest daughter of the Viscount of Belmont, Sarena had been raised all her life to be a lady, which meant excelling in her studies, bringing credit to her family, and, most importantly, marrying well and bearing sons to continue the line.

She'd done magnificently in every field—graduating from Cambridge, forging valuable connections with other daughters of the peerage, managing several charities, and eventually marrying Rye Mellark, descendent of Dutch immigrants and heir to their national, multimillion-pound line of bakeries. She'd had three blond-haired, blue-eyed sons in quick succession, fulfilling the last of the expectations for her. Emmer would inherit the title and manage the lands, while Bran was expected to take over their father's businesses, so she focused her attention on them instead of Peeta, the extra, unplanned child.

But at age five, Peeta didn't have the faintest inkling of any of this. All he knew was that she didn't have a lot of time for him. He loved her anyway, and he knew she loved him, but when it came to having someone kiss his scraped knees, sneak him cookies at dinner, comfort him after nightmares, and tell him stories before bedtime, Peeta always went to his father. The two of them were kindred souls, after all.

"Glowing walls," Peeta mumbled, suddenly shy. He didn't want to cause trouble for his mother. "It was like magic."

"Hmph," she grumbled, letting him go. "Well, you don't look injured. Do you want me to call Aurelius and have him make a house call?" she said to his father.

His father shook his head. "No, I can drive him myself."

She sniffed. "With the money we pay the man, the least he could do is examine us in the comfort of our own home. For God's sake, my sons will be members of the peerage. They shouldn't have to suffer the indignity of waiting rooms. Have you seen the state of hospitals these days? They're breeding pools of poverty and pestilence. It's disgraceful."

Peeta could see his father's mouth thin. "It's fine, Sarena. I'm sure it's nothing serious, but I want him checked out just to make sure."

"If it's nothing serious, then he should stay at home. It's been months since we've had a holiday, and I'm not interrupting it just because one of the boys was careless enough to fall into a well and bump his head," she said, her lip curling. "He could be making the whole thing up—you know he's fascinated with those fairy tales you read him. 'Like magic,' he said. Ha! I can't believe he still believes in that rubbish."

Peeta cringed.

His mother narrowed her ice-blue eyes at him. "Listen to me, Peeta. Magic isn't real. There are no such things as walls that glow for no reason. When you fell, you were probably confused and just imagined everything. Understand?"

Peeta nodded. "Sorry, Mama," he mumbled, staring at his feet.

His mother sighed, her eyes softening. "Good boy." She placed a kiss atop his blond curls and whispered, "Don't scare me like that again, alright?" She straightened up, raising her voice to address everyone in the room. "Now, you and your brothers head straight to bed. No fairy tales tonight, and no running around without a chaperone tomorrow."

"But, Mum!" Bran and Emmer protested.

"No buts. I'll have Effie watch you boys, since you obviously can't be trusted to look after your little brother by yourselves," she said, glaring.

All three Mellark boys winced. Their shallow, fussy governess absolutely_ loathed_ the outdoors. There was no way they'd get to play outside again this week—and there was a better than fair chance that Effie would have them practicing etiquette and manners instead.

Oh, _joy_.

"Peeta, why'd you have to go and hit your head? Now Mum thinks you're a loon," Bran mumbled as they stood at the sink and brushed their teeth.

Peeta pouted. "It's your faults, too," he said. "You ran too fast."

"It's 'cuz your legs are too short," Emmer said matter-of-factly. "Shorter legs mean less speed."

"It's still not _fair_," Peeta whined.

"Oh, really? You want to talk about fair? How is it fair that _we're_ stuck inside because _you _hallucinated glow-in-the-dark walls? And in the middle of a _field_, too. Just goes to show, you're still the baby." Bran chuckled, elbowing Peeta in the side.

His teasing words were motivated in part by residual guilt and fear from earlier. He could still remember running back to the house, yelling for their father at the top of his lungs, convinced their baby brother was going to be eaten by wolves, or die of hypothermia, or suffocate in a freak mudslide, and it was all going to be _his _fault. In comparison to that, having a living, breathing brother who made up crazy stories and believed them was infinitely preferable.

"I didn't halluminate it!" Peeta insisted. "The walls were glow-y orange! It was magic!"

"Oh, Peeta," Emmer sighed. "That's impossible. You heard Mother: magic isn't real."

But as Peeta burrowed into bed, safe and warm and sleepy, he remembered the absolute beauty of the glowing walls, the way they looked like shimmering embers of a dying fire, and he knew his mother was wrong.

Magic _was _real.

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**Endnote: And that's chapter one. Thank you for reading, and please, ****_please_**** review and tell me what you thought of the story! It's much appreciated. :)**


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